The Desert Avenger
by UnStellar
Summary: He was a scavenger of a different sort, he didn't search for caps or weapons, but for people. People really worth his time and effort, and when he found them, they were never the same.
1. Best Served Cold

That lighter had been to hell and back with him, and it would always be by his side. It was tough, American made stainless steel, an ingenious flip top, wick design. The flint never needed to be replaced, but the fluid did. Diesel fuel worked fine, though in a pinch he'd once used some unnamed and ungodly booze brewed by the locals. It's brand name had been ground down from years of wear, but it's design was pre-war, made in the glory days of America. He never named it, but spoke to it like a friend. When he had been shot and left for dead, it was one of the only things left on his body. He didn't remember much from before, which is to be expected after a bullet to the brain, but somehow he knew it had meant just as much then as it did now. A gift, perhaps, from a close friend or lover. Maybe he just adored it's practical durability? He didn't like to linger on those thoughts long, none of it mattered anymore. But sometimes, he'd have a dream- more like a fragment of a dream- where he used the lighter. In the dream, it was always before the war. He was younger, in his late teens, and he was in a diner booth. Sitting to his left, with his arm around her, a girl, a blond haired beauty with an easy laugh and bright smile. Her name was Rebecca. In front of him, a tall boy in a baseball uniform. The name Bobby came to mind. Next to Bobby was a shorter girl with dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and striking blue eyes. Linda... No, it was Rachel. Rebecca put a cigarette in his mouth, and he took the lighter in his free hand and lit it. That bit of the dream faded, next he remembered swinging in a baseball stadium, crowds of people cheering him on. His bat cracks, perfect strike on the ball! Something is carved in the bat... It reads "Bruiser".

That's what they always called him. His real name was long forgotten, in the Mojave, most people left their name behind them. Bruiser was fitting, his muscles were intimidating. He had a way of walking, pure confidence, pure class. He was practically made for the wasteland. Though most Wastelanders took to guns, plasma and otherwise, Bruiser always stuck with up close and personal weapons. The fireaxe was his favorite, but sometimes, he'd use something a little more blunt, like a baseball bat. It may have seemed almost neanderthal, but Bruiser always said it was the more civilized way to go. Look right in a man's eye, let him know you have truly bested him. The truth was, Bruiser loved it. The crack of bones, splat of blood, cleaning it off his weapon, and chunks of flesh charred and scattered after the explosion of a perfectly thrown stick of dynamite...

You may think, because of the flaws I chose to tell you first, that Bruiser is a bad man. But if your worst traits were shown to people before they knew anything else, wouldn't you feel ill used? Of course you would. You are not your flaws, in fact, they make only a small part of who you are. This is true of Bruiser as well. He's a good man, helps out people who can't always help themselves. He drinks, but doesn't get drunk, and smokes only on occasions he deems special, and respectfully follows what little authority there is in the Mojave. That being said, Bruiser was never one to let evil be. He hated those who stood on the sidelines. A man of action, Bruiser had a personal war against Caesar's Legion. He killed them without provocation or remorse. You see, his first encounter with them was at Nipton, and Bruiser had never seen such a sick sight. Though they were far from from innocent souls, not even the blackest of souls deserves crucifixion. His vengeance had been swift, most of the legionnaires were dynamite craters dotting the landscape. But their leader, Vulpes Inculta, got the worst of it, receiving the brunt of Bruiser's sadistic nature. In his eyes, the egotistical worm had gotten only a quarter of what he had bestowed upon the people of Nipton. Vulpes had been injured by Bruiser's first stick of dynamite and was forced to lay low as most of his legionnaires were slaughtered. A couple of stimpaks had him back on his feet, Ripper screaming as he rushed the man. He couldn't wait to sink the saw blade in him, he had let the man live! But the ungrateful wretch had chosen to kill HIS men! As he rushed after the running man- he fled like a coward!- he failed to noticed the frag mines cleverly thrown down by the tall, blond savage. The first one crippled his left leg, and he saw the writing on the wall. Stimpak supply used up, Vulpes could do nothing but limp away desperately. He heard the footsteps, crunching in the gravel behind him. He didn't want to turn. The last thing he heard was,

"When this is over, I will wear your head like you wear the head of that dog."

Vulpes could practically hear the smirk in his words. With special relish, Bruiser pulled his baseball bat, knowing that his fireaxe would end the man's life too quickly. The bat, however, drew it out to nearly ten minutes. Vulpes wasn't the first to meet such a fate. Arrogance was a trigger for Bruiser's sadism, and Joe Cobb had been the first victim of Bruiser's temper. The first he remembered, at least. It had terrified the locals, Bruiser had nothing but a cleaver back then, and all it took was the way Cobb talked to Trudy and the attitude he showed in their brief conversation for Bruiser to choose to end the man there. Cobb never even touched his revolver.

Bruiser had killed a few of the wastelands worst people, but Vulpes was his most famous, and earned him the name Desert Avenger. After that fight, Bruiser took his lighter, hot from all the fuses it had lit, and lit off a cigarette, the first one since his awakening in Goodsprings. He looked down the street at the residents still being crucified, and glanced back at his lighter.

Yessir, him and that lighter had been to hell and back together.


	2. It Will Never be the Same

"Sorry buddy, but I like em' tall, blond, and female." She said, with special emphasis on the last word. Bruiser let out a sly grin, and unable to help himself, shrugged his shoulders mischievously.

"Two out of three ain't bad." He said with a self-satisfied smirk. Betsy's eyes went real wide, flickering with shock, as her mouth snapped closed. The other members of 1st Recon stopped their game of Caravan to listen in, and for a second, time stood real still. They couldn't believe anybody would joke like that with Betsy. They were careful what they said around her in light of recent events, and couldn't believe some Wasteland asshole could be so obnoxious. They braced for him to become a bloody pulp, and to deal with Betsy's mood for the rest of the day.

That's the problem with the world these days. They get tense, expect the worst. Act as if everything is the end of little they have left, like they were seconds away from another set of bombs dropping, wiping mankind from the map for good this time. No one dared to hope, to wish for a better future, they were content with what they had now, they couldn't look to the future, because there was only darkness and death there. Death behind them, death in front, and the slightest loss of balance on their delicate world would bring it down.

How simple-minded! Why couldn't they see, in the end it would be alright? The world had practically ended once, a nuclear winter engulfed it, and yet, mankind stood tall! They embraced the new, though drastically different life and went on, forward, to progress! Though they disagreed, though they fought, mankind soldiered on his path, forward! Into the future! Why couldn't people see that what's happened was yesterday, and that their actions could change tomorrow! Why do we insist of tensely walking through life, frightened to death of upsetting anything? Why do we get in the way of our own progress? Why do we allow fear to engulf, taking away the only thing we have after the world ended: opportunity for a brighter future, a better tomorrow!

No, we'd rather scrape by on scavenged goods, shadows of a past we barely remember but are so subdued to. We'd rather exist then truly live! First Recon may not have known it, but they faced the conflict that had haunted mankind since the first humans came out of the vaults, and that was choosing hope over death. They may not have consciously known, nor have ever been able to say it out loud, but inside them each of them they knew what was about to happen would, in some bizarre way, change their lives forever, for better or worse.

And that second of silence was over. Betsy, who carried First Recon's, and, in a way, the world's, fate on her shoulders, made her decision, and the world would never be the same!

She broke into gut busting laughter, her cheerful laugh echoing across the camp, and just kept laughing. Bruiser's smirk grew into a grin, and all of 1st Recon exploded into laughter as well. It wasn't just the joke, although that had helped, they all felt a glow in them that they couldn't quite explain. Hope had won! For the first time in decades, hope had overtaken death in the Wasteland! Ignoring her anger, her past, her ego, Betsy chose hope and life, to laugh, and live! And in them all was a spark of light that they hadn't felt since they were children, or for some, had never felt at all. Other NCR soldiers looked at the cheerful tent oddly, not understanding. They wouldn't, couldn't, not for a while. Some things can't be explained, only experienced first hand to be truly understood. But with the flame of hope burning in their rib cage, it would spread, and soon people might know that hope can exist again, that it can live again! For a while, the Legion, the Fiends, Nephi, Cook-Cook, all the bad in the world disappeared, overwhelmed by hope. Death felt it, and it shook. Truly, the world would never be the same.

The night drug on, Bruiser spent it with all the members of 1st Recon. They couldn't remember the last time they'd felt like this. Eventually they turned in to their bunks, happy, with alcohol in their belly and hope in their hearts. Bruiser left the tent, looking out at a full moon.

"Well I'll be dammed." He muttered under his breath, soaking in the sight.

"Perfect way to cap off the night, eh?" A voice said. Bruiser turned to see Betsy walk up to him.

"I'd say so." He replied with a smile. They stood in silence, unsure of what to say.

"It's not going to be like this forever you know." Betsy said, breaking the silence. All at once, Bruiser understood.

"We'll have to fight for it." He said simply. Betsy nodded.

"I... Can't think of anything else worth fighting for. It's bigger then the NCR, the Legion, the Wasteland... It's bigger then all of us. What, is it?" Betsy pondered out loud, fumbling for her cigarette in the darkness. Bruiser reached for his lighter and lit up one his own, Betsy found hers and set it in her lips. Bruiser lit it up for her, and then stared at her face lit in the moon light. Distracted, Betsy gazed up at the radiant fullness, enjoying the familiar rush of nicotine. An aftershock was about to hit the world, smaller in magnitude then today's first event, but no less important.. After exhaling their first drag, Bruiser leaned in, planting a kiss on her lips. Her eyes went wide in shock for the second time that day.

"It's called hope." He said simply, after pulling his lips away. Betsy only nodded her head, dumbfounded. Her cigarette went out, not properly lit the first time. Bruiser smiled as he brandished his lighter again.

Yes, that lighter, his constant companion...


	3. The Whiskey Rose

Bruiser whistled in admiration. One didn't see many monuments in the Mojave, but the NCR did love their memorials, didn't they? There was nothing wrong with that. With the world going to hell, holding on to better memories was sometimes the only way to make it through tomorrow. And the two bold figures exchanging handshakes was certainly better memories. He suspected people hoped that day would change everything, that the alliance would be just what they needed to win, to bring peace. Funny thing about peace, like hope, it's never there when you need it . And peace, like war, never changes. It is always a lofty goal, forever distant , at times miles away and at other times at the tip of your finger tips. If you do manage to grab it, you'll just lose it again. Peace was like a needle in a haystack, and every time you found it, you put it in your pocket, only to find that you have a hole in your pocket. Then you have to search for it all over again, and if you ever find it, you forget you have a hole in your pocket again. Vicious cycles. Sometimes it felt like humans were composed of nothing but vicious cycles.

Such cynicism was rare for him, but it had been a long walk and his bag was heavy with miscellaneous weapons and electronics, some food. He had started his journey from Goodsprings, and such fights were still new to him. His stimpak supply was low, and he was hungry for something besides the canned food in his pack. But, thankfully, he had found the Mojave outpost. It was hard to miss, really.

He came in a couple hours after dark and the Outpost was especially crowded that evening. A caravan had just come in to drop off the regular shipment of ammo, stimpaks and combat armor for the troops and when they did they usually liked to get a stiff drink. A couple other wastelanders like Bruiser had wandered in as well, and the drinks were being poured, flirts exchanged, and hands of caravan played. Bruiser stood in the threshold awkwardly, all the bar stools were occupied and most of the tables as well. Bruiser spied a pretty, short haired girl whisking around behind the bar, filling drinks and taking caps. He barged to the front, standing at the corner of the bar silently. Drunken troopers glanced at him briefly, and to his amusement, he heard one say to his friend,

"Christ, look at the arms on that one."

"Aw, don't be such a puss. I bet I could take him."

Bruiser shot them both a glance, and they instantly turned their heads and went back to their drinks, alcohol buzzes temporarily lost. As the bartender came near, Bruiser set his heavy pack on the table with a thump and a nod. She nodded in reply and hovered over to him.

"Whatcha got?"

"Weapons, some armor, food." She nodded again.

"Give me a second." She made another loop around the bar, filling more drinks and returned to him.

"That'll keep em' occupied for a little bit, but I've only got a couple of minutes."

Bruiser started pulling odds and ends from the bag, dropping a couple of knives, a lead pipe, a sawed off shotgun, a laser pistol, some rag tag raider armor, and several other items on the small bit of counter top he was given. The bartender looked them over with a thorough, though expedient eye, and found them to her satisfaction. She glanced at the armor, still blood stained with long slashes through it, and thne glanced at the chopper on Bruiser's hip with wide eyes.

"Christ, you took these guys down with a knife?" Bruiser only nodded in reply.

"I'll be sure to put you on my not to fuck with list. What do you want for all this?"

"Stimpaks. And dynamite, if you have it." She hummed to herself, silently.

"I might have some long fused dynamite in back..."

"Lacey! I'll finish off that bottle." A voice called, and her head shot up.

"Sorry big man, customers calling. I'll make another round and we should be able to finish the deal." She grabbed less then half full bottle of whiskey from the shelf and carried it to the first one who called to her, a pretty red head with a cowboy hat. To his amazement, the redhead drank it straight. Bruiser also noticed the two stools around her were empty, and he wondered why. Pretty girls like her were usually the center of attention in bars like this. After a couple of minutes, Lacey seemed to have vanished, and Bruiser grew impatient. Tired and hungry, he crossed the bar to the empty stool next to the red head, and took a seat. She eyed him warily, and without greeting, simply asked him,

"Looking for trouble?" He could smell the whiskey on her breath.

"No. Just a drink. Since the bartender's busy I thought I'd buy a glass off you."

Bruiser watched her take a long pull off the bottle.

"Why me?" She asked after a pause.

"Whiskey is my drink. You happen to have it." With a smirk, the girl replied,

"Usually, guys offer to buy me a drink." Bruiser sighed, tired of the games.

"I'm just here for some whiskey." With a twinkle in her eye and another quick smirk, she took the bottle and with one fluid motion was draining the last quarter liquor. As the empty bottle slammed on the counter, the rosy faced red head let out a belch.

"I don't have any whiskey." She said with a self-satisfied smile. Bruiser was frustrated enough to punch her lights out, but restrained himself.

"Fine." He said, turning quickly.

"Hey, wait!" Bruiser kept walking, not wanting to continue the conversation any further.

"I don't have any here. But I got the good shit in back." Curiosity queued, Bruiser turned around.

"What makes it special?" To which the girl grinned.

"If you can drink more of it then I can, I'll tell you the recipe." Bruiser held eye contact with her, not believing what he was hearing.

"You're mostly tanked already. You think you can down more shots then me, stone sober?" He asked, disbelieving and amused.

"I told you," She paused to belch once more,

"It's MY secret recipe."A couple other customers took notice, listening shook his head.

"Not interested." Those listening in booed him jovially, and started to jeer.

"Big man afraid he'll lose to little ol' me?" The girl asked. Bruiser glared at the increasingly large mob, and it occurred to him that if he didn't take her up on his offer, the mob wouldn't let up on him all night. And he didn't want to move on. Realizing he had no other option, and with a heavy sigh, he accepted the challenge.

Hell, it might even be fun to watch the bitch pass out, he thought, as she brought out her "special" recipe and started pouring shots.

After the first shot was knocked back, and the crowd cheered, Bruiser realized something was terribly wrong.

This wasn't whiskey at all.


	4. A Vision: Thunder & Lightening

_All that remained was grey and black , like clouds. The black was evil, and there was no heart left in them, except the longing for something more. Something they had forsaken long ago. Something that had been taken from , alone, with no light, they turned to things that only drug them further away. Chems. Bloodshed. Caps. And continually they grew emptier. The darkness consumed the grey little by little. The grey had little heart and little drive, they submitted readily. _

_Anything they had to live for was taken, too. And the only thing to strive for, white, purity, goodness, was gone. They were just as lost as the dark. Little by little the distinction became less clear, it was all darkness, ripping at itself. Shooting, stabbing, taking, always taking. Reaching for what was lost. And when it seemed like the bottom had been found it just went deeper and the dark got darker. _

_And then, all that remained was black._

_They were afraid. No matter how deep they dug, they were only emptier. Was this part of the human condition? That was the question that dug into their minds like splinters that could never be pulled out, only left in to fester and dig and tear further. Hope had ceased to exist, and without the humans crawled with nothing._

_The dark got darker._

_They grew increasingly ignorant and increasingly desperate, their souls screamed out like howling wolves, seeking sustenance and finding none. They envied the beasts of the wastes, dumb beasts though they were. Ignorance is bliss. And soon, some became like them, nothing but beasts. Nothing but killers. And that was the black that was Absolute, the complete consumption of humanity. In it all there was no shred of knowledge for escape, no savior, no love, no sympathy no humanity._

_But one dark cloud received a new chance. Ironically, he received it through the very thing that brought it all to begin with, the central core of human nature; a grab for power. _

_Those two bullets were like sunshine, tearing through his brain, clearing away all the darkness. He glimpsed something incredible, something new, he touched it with a finger. And suddenly, it was all ripped away again, and the cloud emerged anew like a phoenix rising from the ashes!_

_A new being. A better being. He returned white into a black world, and slowly it spread to other. Grey came back, and then white. The black saw a glimpse of truth, of life, and those that saw grabbed for it desperately. Anything to ease the pain! They thought. But it wasn't just a quick fix, another dead end. What they grasped was Hope itself, and light returned to their lives and the black became white and the world breathed fresh again. Soon grey became more common then black, and though given only a glimpse, these clouds, like blind men clutching through darkness, bettered themselves. Though this movement was small, it picked up steam. Those very few it first touched picked up their crosses to spread hope._

_The wastes slowly became better. Even those who had never heard of the things happening felt it, the wastes became a different place. The air was lighter, things felt happy again. Though black remained, and mostly grey prevailed, life was better._

_But still, the Absolute Blacks remained, gazing at this new thing dumbly. With no humanity left, it was impossible for them to comprehend this new phenomenon. So, they turned to the only answers they knew. The lies. And they beat at the white and the lighter shades of grey hard. They beat with such fury. They were simply beasts, though their masks looked otherwise, and they fought with such fury, such resolve. It was a beasts survival instincts. Overwhelming, unyielding, unforgiving. _

_Absolute._

_The white was pure, untouched from spilled blood. It was a message of peace for many, and though dark hearts were turned, the Absolute was unwavering. It's peaceful hopes were shattered. And soon, so was it's hold. The grey fell away more and more to black once more, without their support, the white were naked and defenseless._

_The deepest instinct is the fear of the unknown. That was what drove the black and the Absolute, the most central fear that we share, beasts and men alike. The fear was something to hold to. The fear was a friend. The fear was fuel. Fuel for a terrible machine. This machine thundered forward and began to consume._

_All that remained was grey and black._

_But then, a voice said to the lightest grey:_

_"Lo! I will not see my light fade from the earth again. All you weak of heart, all you grey, purify yourselves once more! Take up these gifts of thunder and lightening, use them to fight for your hearts, and the hearts of those around you! Do not allow yourselves to be consumed by the black once more!"_

_And two figures, once the lightest gray and now white like snow, came from the midst of the grey. And one held lightening, which they shot with great speed and abundance. The other held thunder in his fists, and he struck them loudly, and the black fell._

Bruiser opened his eyes. For minutes, he simply lay there, lost in his thoughts. He had so much running through his mind at once. If his mind was a river, it was flooding, the dam had broken. He couldn't swim fast enough, and the current carried him off. Where did this vision come from? He thought the most. One part of his mind suggested the copious amounts of moonshine he had consumed last night. Another... Suggested a radical and horrifying possibility: a higher power had just called him to service.

Both theories clawed at him fervently, and he pushed both aside, following the river down another bend. What exactly was he to do? Who were the absolute black? What were the gifts of thunder and lightening? Where would he even start?

Frazzled, he rolled his body over in frustration and discovered he was not alone in his bed. Next to him lay the pretty red head from last night. Another surge overtook him and his mind jumped to many conclusions, but both of them were fully clothed. He found many of his claims unfounded on that fact alone.

And as he looked on her sleeping face, he came to an abrupt realization. She was lightening. He was thunder.

Bruiser sat up and contemplated on this. How could he be so sure? But when he turned his head to look at her again, he knew. The feeling didn't come from and a sexual desire toward her but from an assurance deep in him. She would help him.

Again, the two answers to his first question came to mind and one side gained dramatic weight in the discussion. Once more, he pushed it aside. If he took time to contemplate on it all he would go mad, and he would be no closer to the truth anyway. Frustrated, Bruiser rose from bed, deciding the only answer now was to take his mind off things.

Ahead of him was a long and perilous task. The magnitude of it made him feel sick to his stomach. But whatever the reason, he felt he had to embark on it. And to start, he would need a companion.

The girl who slept at his side would be that companion.


End file.
